


Bright, White Hot

by wangler



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Established Relationship, Future Fic, M/M, Minor Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-09
Updated: 2012-02-09
Packaged: 2017-10-30 21:00:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,528
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/336033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wangler/pseuds/wangler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Camelot’s warlock, the source of the unyielding flames, still hasn’t responded to the sound of his name. He staggers in a small circle, his cloak and staff singed, his eyes wild and unseeing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bright, White Hot

The plan had been flawless in theory: Lead the invading army into the valley. Set them on fire. Win the day.  
  
It’s not that it doesn’t work. It works _very_ well, as evidenced by the army reduced to nothing but charred, smoking corpses—hundreds of heaps of cooked flesh and warped, blackened armor.  
  
The hitch in the plan is that Camelot’s warlock, the source of the unyielding flames, still hasn’t responded to the sound of his name. He staggers in a small circle, his cloak and staff singed, his eyes wild and unseeing. Each time Arthur gets too close, the remaining wisp of a flame at Merlin’s palm swells.  
  
Trees continue to smoulder. The air is thick with the scents of burnt flesh and the smoke that continues to rise from the hot earth.  
  
The sun begins to set.  
  
Merlin holds the magic flame like a torch, the flickering light illuminating the scorched bodies around him. He whirls on unseen attackers, shies away from the handful of knights—his friends, the only men Arthur trusts to try to bring Merlin down and away from here. The only men Arthur trusts with the mistake that is so clear now.  
  
“Do you suppose he’ll tire out, Sire?” Sir Leon asks, standing beside Arthur. He looks as ill as Arthur feels.  
  
Arthur watches Merlin stagger with small, shifting steps. He wants to approach him, to embrace him, to close his eyes and turn him away from the destruction and death. But the air around Merlin still wavers and shimmers with heat.   
  
“We can’t wait for that. If any of them are left, they’ll be upon us soon.” Arthur isn’t concerned for himself or his knights. But Merlin makes an easy target, as helpless as a blinded animal. They can’t approach him directly, but a well-aimed crossbow could take him down in an instant.  
  
The idea of it leads him to a series of unsavoury thoughts. Should they travel with poisoned darts like kidnappers use? Can he not control his own warlock? Is this damage—is Merlin—beyond repair?  
  
“Merlin!” He calls out sharply, anger lacing his voice. Night is falling. The army rides away, torches bobbing in the distance like fairy fire. As the sound fades, the battlefield grows more silent. Arthur can hear Merlin breathing in uneven, unsteady bursts.  
  
Arthur presses his fingertips at this brow and closes his eyes tightly, trying to think around the stifling, uncomfortable sensation of regret.  
  
Sir Gwaine shifts. “He won’t attack me. I’ll grab him, and we can…I’ll—”  
  
A brittle, scorched bit of an arm or wrist snaps beneath Gwaine’s boot. Merlin turns toward them, nearly losing his balance. He catches himself with his staff and faces them, looking toward the horizon blankly. The flame is still there in his hand, unwavering, and the heat washes over them, as if Merlin himself is a bright, white-hot coal.  
  
Arthur sighs. “No, if he hurts any of us, he’ll never forgive himself.”  
  
“The fire. It only feels hot when he’s facing us,” Lancelot says quietly. “If someone can get behind him…”  
  
“Yes.” Arthur nods. “But it will have to be fast, before he can react.” Talking about Merlin as he stands there close by and shivering feels like a betrayal. But Arthur can’t let this continue, can’t watch Merlin stumble around the sea of ruin he brought forth for Camelot.  
  
“He might focus on you, Arthur,” Gwaine says. “Draw your blade, or talk to him some more, whatever. I’ll get around behind him.”  
  
It seems that none of them wish to voice what Gwaine will have to do to bring Merlin down. There's no sense putting it off. Arthur circles to one side as Gwaine circles to the other.  
  
“Stand down, sorcerer!” Arthur cries out, drawing his sword. He’s addressed Merlin as many things, _idiot-moron-afflicted-fool-advisor-love_ but never _sorcerer_ as his father would have, spitting the word out like a cherry stone.  
  
It works. Merlin turns toward him slowly, gaze sharpening as if he recognises _what_ he is, as if he's been expecting it.  
  
“Blades did them _no_ good,” Merlin says, responding in a soft, almost sing-song voice. He gestures at the dark field with his staff. “No good. No good. They didn’t fight. They burned. Do you want to burn too?”  
  
Arthur can’t keep up the game. He lowers his sword, his arm aching, everything aching. “Merlin…”  
  
Before Merlin can raise the hand that breathes fire, Gwaine is there, driving his boot against the back of Merlin’s knee and grasping him firmly by the throat as he falls. It’s a classic bar-brawling move, not one that Arthur would usually approve of, but it’s efficient. The fire sputters away as if doused in water, Merlin’s eyes widen, his staff drops out of his fingers, and his head drops back against Gwaine.   
  
Gwaine gathers him up as he slumps, drawing him away from the blackened soil and soot at their feet. “He’s all right,” he calls out, adjusting Merlin’s weight. “He’s fine, Arthur.”  
  
Arthur feels Lancelot next to him, his hand steady over Arthur’s. “Sire. We should leave.” It sounds like _Are you okay?_ So Arthur nods, swallowing hard. He sheathes his sword and trudges over hollowed, burnt flesh and gravely soil to where Gwaine is handing Merlin over to Leon.  
  
He wants to punch Gwaine, and Gwaine can tell. His eyes narrow, but he stands his ground. Arthur clasps his shoulder tightly, gives him a brief shake. “Well done.”  
  
Gwaine shrugs him off.  
  
“Sir Gwaine. Sire,” Leon says pointedly, shifting his weight and nodding toward where their horses are tethered upwind from the smoke. Merlin sleeps in Leon’s arms, soot-stained, hair wild and messy, arms askew.  
  
Arthur sighs and picks up Merlin’s staff, marveling at the way the knotted rowan feels like nothing more than a piece of driftwood. “Let’s go.”

  


***

  
Arthur doesn’t allow himself to worry until the second day back in Camelot, when Merlin still hasn’t awakened. The new court physician, a portly former Mercian, explains that great stress on the mind can induce deep sleep. He says it in a way that feels like an accusation and Arthur shouts as he sends him away.  
  
That evening, Arthur sends for lamb stew and fragrant pear tarts and the cold cheese sandwiches that Merlin loves. Guinevere brings fresh water as if it’s still her duty, and he sends her away too, unable to bear her honesty. This time, he doesn’t need Gwen to tell him what he did was wrong.  
  
Merlin sleeps without stirring, without mumbling or snoring. He rests on his back in the centre of the bed like a figure from a child’s story, as still as stone.  
  
Sometime in the night, Arthur dozes off in his chair beside the bed. When he wakes, it’s still dark. He squints, making out Merlin’s shivering form in the darkness.  
  
“You’re awake. Merlin, I—”  
  
“Wait. I have to—listen to me, Arthur. I’ll fight sorcerers. And beasts. And t-time and destiny. But I can’t cut men down for you. Don’t. Don’t ask me to. It’s bigger than me. The magic—it’s bigger. I’ll just burn. I’ll just burn away.”  
  
Arthur reaches for him and draws him close in the dark. Merlin feels thin and cold to the touch, like part of him is already gone. Arthur hates magic. He hates it.  
  
“I asked too much.” He grabs Merlin’s face carefully, holds him until they’re breath to breath and Merlin can’t look away. “You were only obeying your king. Do you understand me?”  
  
Merlin nods, shivering and pulling away from Arthur’s hold. “Don’t push me. I can’t stop when it’s you, when you need me. It’s the coin or something, Kilgharrah said—it’s like you’re calling me, the way I call him.”  
  
“Shh, Merlin. Shh. I’m not, I won’t. You’re _freezing_. Stop squirming and let me warm you up.”  
  
“Do you think I’m mad?” Merlin asks, going still as Arthur rubs at his arms and his back and his thighs, the friction slowly warming his skin.  
  
“Well. I thought for a while you might kill us all, but you didn’t. I don’t think you’re mad. Just a little scary.”  
  
“Mmn.”  
  
“I’m _joking_ , Merlin.”  
  
“You’re not.”  
  
Arthur sighed. “I wasn’t scared of you, I was… I was scared for you. Gwaine had to tackle you. He feels—”  
  
“I remember.”  
  
“Ah.”  
  
“I remember everything.”  
  
The bodies, then. The smell of it. The screams that weren’t loud enough to drown out the sound of flesh crackling and bubbling.  
  
Arthur looks around the shadowed, dark room. It isn’t hard to picture the battlefield. “Do you want me to light candles?”  
  
“No. Stay here.”  
  
They’re silent for a while. Merlin eventually stops trembling, but his skin remains clammy.  
  
“Did you _bathe_ me?” Merlin asks abruptly, smelling his own arm.  
  
“You were filthy.”  
  
“I’m sorry I missed out on that.” Arthur thinks he hears a faint smile and touches Merlin’s mouth to feel it and make sure it’s really there.  
  
“I’ll have a bath drawn when the sun comes up. And I’ll wash your hair.” Arthur’s voice lowers with the promise of more, if Merlin will still have him.  
  
“Yes,” Merlin breathes. “Please.”


End file.
